


little things

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [108]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mundane objects? do you mean: perfect ways to convey emotional pain, music is something that can be so personal actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Newton sits; again; cradles the guitar to his chest. “Would you like me to play you something?”“I—” Hermann stops; startled; breath catching in his throat; chokes, nearly, on the emotion rising in his chest, like water filling his lungs; drowning in it. “Yes,” he manages. “I—I would like that rather much, Newton.”





	little things

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Okay so I came across a prompt I liked the other day but I am very much not a writer so I see you are taking prompts and maybe you can do something with it!!!! It is: I am composing some awesome fight scene music for the bedroom."

“What,” says Hermann, turning down the dial on the radio, “_are_ you doing?”

Newton, laying on his stomach on the floor, papers and bowls and—“Newton,” he says, sharply, “are those my _inkwells?_”

The other starts; a guilty expression on his face.

“Absolutely not,” he says, making to cover up one of the inkwells with a sheet of staff paper. “Those are in no way, shape, or form, your ink thingies.” 

Hermann sighs. “How did you even get one?” he says, instead; “you’ve not been out of this room since they switched you from the original room, and that was over a month ago.” The last remark brings a scowl to his face; Newton is no longer a threat—they shouldn’t be keeping him under lock and key anymore.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Newton says. “Dude, I can hear your upset from over here. It’s chill, alright? I get it. Don’t be upset at them—it makes sense that they want to be sure the Precursors aren’t hanging around anymore. Plus,” he gestures to the room around him, “it’s not like they’re keeping me in a padded cell.”

“_Anymore,_” Hermann bites; two months of furious arguing before they’d even give him a _pillow!_ His fingers tap an anxious beat on the head of his cane; Newton’s nervous tic, originally.

Newton lets out a huff of breath. “I just said it’s chill, dude,” he reassures. “Anyway, I’m not telling you how I got ‘em.”

Hermann presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Well, at least, what are you _doing_ with them?”

“Composing,” Newton says. “I used to be great at it.”

“I see you’re just as humble as ever,” Hermann says drily. “What are you composing?”

Newton hums. “Fight-scene music,” he says. “I’m composing some epic fight-scene music for the bedroom.” He spreads the papers back out; picks up a pencil. The inkwells, Hermann notices, are capped, as if unopened, but Newton’s fingers bear the tell-tale traces of ink. 

“The bedroom,” Hermann repeats; lowers himself to sit next to the other.

“Mhm. The, uh, one in the penthouse—you know, the one with the, uh,” he gestures to his head; wriggles his fingers in imitation of tentacles. 

Hermann swallows thickly; wonders, _Whyever would you do that?_

Newton catches sight of his expression; laughs, a little bitterly. “Roadmap of my life,” he says; “in musical form. Figured that if I couldn’t get it back, I should at least try and get my thoughts about it out.” He gives a single-shouldered shrug. “Want to see?”

“That’s…” Hermann pauses; at loss, a bit, for words; Newton is, in a way, baring his soul to him—and what is he to say to that? “I have work,” he says, instead; a lump in his throat; “I should—I should get to it.”

“Alright,” Newton says; a downturn to his expression. 

Hermann hurries out.

* * *

“Hermann,“ Newton greets; sitting, this time, in a chair; paper in front of him, again; this time, inkwells accompanied by paper-cranes, music staffs flue on the folds. "How are you?”

“Newton,” Hermann replies; hefts, awkwardly, griping it with a single hand, the guitar up and offers it to Newton. “I, ah,” he pauses; “I thought, perhaps, you might…enjoy having something to play your pieces on, or…or just play on, should the urge strike you.”

Newt raises his head; blinks, unspeaking; and then: “Oh…Hermann…” he trails off; takes the guitar with a carefulness that Hermann’s rarely seen in him; like he’s handling a kitten, or a particularly precious piece of kaiju. “Thank you,” he says, softly.

Hermann turns his head; gaze to the ground; grips his cane. “It was the least I could do,” he says; slightly hoarse; doesn’t say what he thinks: _I wish I could do more._

Newton sits; again; cradles the guitar to his chest. “Would you like me to play you something?”

“I—” Hermann stops; startled; breath catching in his throat; chokes, nearly, on the emotion rising in his chest, like water filling his lungs; drowning in it. “Yes,” he manages. “I—I would like that rather much, Newton.”

Newton bites his lip; holds the neck of it like it’s the first time, but his fingers, when he starts, are sure; voice, too, though it wavers at the corners, like a well-loved blanket.

> _I didn’t_
> 
> _Mean to come here and I_
> 
> _Never thought you’d stay_
> 
> _But still_
> 
> _You sit here_
> 
> _By my side_
> 
> _And technicolour_
> 
> _Fades_
> 
> _Away_
> 
> _The monochrome of sleep_
> 
> _That clouds my mind_
> 
> _And brings me back to life_

Newton’s voice fades; Hermann’s eyes open; he doesn’t know when they slipped closed. “That…” he breathes; once, twice; doesn’t say anything more, unsure of _how_ to say it, of _what_ to say, even.

The biologist crooks a half-smile. “It’s shit, I know,” he says, “it’s been a while since I, uh, wrote anything.”

“What’s…does it have a title?” Hermann asks; half-hoping—for _what?_

“January,” Newton replies; doesn’t meet his gaze; sets the guitar down on the floor, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

Ah. Hermann swallows.

“You should probably get going,” Newton says; “you have places to be, right?”

“Actually…” Hermann pauses; purses his lips. “They’re finalising the paperwork right now,” he says; watches Newton’s eyes widen.

“What?” he chokes; fingers laxing.

“You’re free to go, Newton,” Hermann says; and there’s a tear in his voice, he can feel it; the silent catch of emotion.

Newton blinks at him; eyes wide; glassy; and then, suddenly, a single tear slips, trails down his cheek. “Hermann…” he stops; drops his hands to his lap; and then, without warning, with a cry, falls into him; clinging to the cloth of his pants like a lifeline.

“Newton, Newton, Newton,” Hermann soothes; carefully lowers himself to the ground, cradles the biologist’s head in his lap. “Oh, Newton…”

Newton doesn’t speak; tears wetting the legs of Hermann’s pants; when he raises his head, finally, he drags a hand over his eyes roughly. “Hermann,” he says, again; and Hermann returns the tentative smile twisting at his lips.

“Newton,” he greets.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
